The Way Into Chaos: Book One of the Great Way

by Harry Connolly

  The grunt’s hip struck the edge of the pit, then it tumbled out of sight.

  Tejohn raced around the edge of the sleepstone and grabbed at the ladder, throwing it across the room.

  Down below, the creature seemed groggy. It had landed awkwardly and now lay stretched on the stone floor, its leg twisted under it. It groaned, rolled over, and trembled as its leg slowly untwisted itself. In the space of six or seven breaths, the beast shook its broken leg as though it was a rumpled wet blanket, then stood upright upon it. The grunt stared up at Tejohn, its leg already fully healed. It roared and leaped upward.

  Too deep. The grunt tried to gouge its claws into the wall but unlike in Peradain, there were no joins between blocks where it could find purchase, and the pit was too deep for it to catch the lip.

  This was not the king. This was not Lar Italga. Not anymore. “Fire and Fury,” Tejohn whispered. “What are we facing here?”

  It leaped again, then again, its dark eyes wild with hunger. It came close enough to the top that Tejohn could have lain flat on the floor and caught it by the wrist, but that distance was enough. It was trapped.

  When the grunt jumped again, Lar’s torn robes fell away from it, revealing the last of the king’s bloody flesh lying among the cloth. The last of the Italga line was gone. Destroyed. Tejohn had been the king’s bodyguard, weapons master, and shield bearer, but he had been powerless to prevent it.

  He was overwhelmed at once by his abject failure and by the knowledge that his life’s path had brought him to a place that no one could have expected. “Grateful am I to be permitted to travel The Way.”

  After a few more moments, the beast stopped leaping at him. It crouched at the bottom of the pit, staring upward, as it plucked the king’s the bloody flesh from the ground and ate it greedily.

  Lar had made jokes at Tejohn’s expense at every opportunity, had shirked every exercise, had rolled his eyes at every correction. The king had been right; Tejohn hadn’t liked him--he certainly hadn’t loved him--but he’d sworn to serve him. Had sworn to be his shield bearer. And now this.

  Tejohn felt as empty as a the air outside. The world was blowing through him, but he held no thought, no will. If he had faded into nothingness in that moment, it would have seemed a perfectly logical consequence of his failure. Instead, he persisted, for no reason at all except that the gods could not trouble themselves to burn him from the path.

  The beast roared at Tejohn again. There was something odd about the way it was looking at him. Did it remember the man it had once been? Could it recognize its old teacher?

  Tejohn reached into his pocket and touched the little blue translation stone Cazia Freewell had made for him.

  The beast opened its mouth, but this time Tejohn heard it say, “Blessing! BLESS YOU! Blessing!”

  Fire and Fury. The king had not been turned into a wild beast; he had become something else. Something insane and vicious.

  But he was still the king. If the creature in that pit had wits enough to speak at all, then there might still be a bit of Lar Italga within it. And Tejohn could not give up on him. Not now or ever.

  Tejohn turned away from the pit and stalked through the door. Arla stood just outside, an arrow half drawn from the quiver on her hip. “My tyr, should I...?”

  “No,” he said. Reglis and Wimnel both looked at him uncertainly. He turned away and marched across the darkness toward the dying fire.

  The nearest corpse looked a little thin, so he grabbed hold of the fatter one nearby and dragged him across the yard. The body was still warm but Tejohn pushed that thought away; he was a servant of the Throne of Skulls. Surely, someone somewhere had done worse than this.

  He ignored the others’ astonished expressions as he dragged the corpse into the lit room. He peeled off the dead man’s leather vest, then his boots, then his belt. There were a half-full pouch, a string of shells around one wrist, and a lump of amber on a leather thong around his neck. Tejohn cast them all into the corner.

  “My tyr...” Reglis said from behind him.

  Something in that voice made Tejohn’s hair stand on end. He stood and turned in one motion, his hand on his sword. “What is it, Captain?” He wished he had his shield, but he’d seen Reglis fight and didn’t think it would be necessary.

  Reglis had to raise his voice to be heard over Lar’s roaring. “My tyr, these men are our fallen enemies. We should treat them the way we’d hope to be treated. I hope you don’t plan to—”

  “Hold out your hand.” Reglis hesitated a moment, but he did it. “Don’t drop this,” Tejohn said, then placed the stone into the man’s palm.

  Reglis cried out in shock and horror; he recoiled so violently he would have dropped the stone if Tejohn hadn’t held onto him.

  “Scout!” Tejohn shouted. “Come in here!” Tejohn took the enchanted stone away from him as Reglis staggered back. Arla entered warily. Tejohn held up the blue stone. “This is a translation stone. Do you know how it works?”

  Arla shook her head. Tejohn took her wrist and held the stone against her palm. Her eyes went wide with surprise.

  “Do you understand?” Tejohn said. “He says the same thing over and over, but he is speaking. Lar Italga’s mind may have been overthrown but he still exists. Our king is not dead.”

  Tejohn lifted the naked corpse and threw him into the pit. Immediately, the beast fell upon it, tearing the meat from the bones.

  Wimnel came forward, his hand outstretched. “My tyr, may I?”

  He took the stone with a strange, serene expression, then moved to the lip of the pit, staring down at the butchery.

  Reglis wiped sweat from his face. “Still, my tyr, these are our enemies. We should bury them, not feed them to...to that thing in the pit.”

  “There are animals in the pen,” Arla added. She still looked like she’d been stunned.

  “No,” Tejohn said. “The animals are going to be for the one who remains here, in this compound, taking care of our king.”

  Chapter 16

  “I will stay,” Wimnel said. He stepped forward and handed Tejohn the stone. “The king asked me to take his life today. It was hard for him to speak, but he asked me to strike him down. I refused, and promised to care for him.”

  Tejohn looked the man over. Loyal but not brave, he had thought; the man seemed likely to redeem the Farrabell name, if they survived long enough for anyone but Song to learn of it. “What if the king escapes his prison?”

  “I’ll see that he does not.”

  Arla wasn’t impressed by that. “What if he does anyway?”

  “Then I will die. Or I will be transformed and run through the wilderness beside him. But I will do everything I can to avoid that day.”

  Tejohn nodded to him. “I will take this as an oath.” Wimnel nodded in confirmation.

  Tejohn strode into the yard. There were so many dead here, but most would be rotten before it was time for the king to feed again. He plunged his spear into every corpse by the fire, then into every Finstel servant and guard piled by the water tables. He did not find any living enemies hiding among the dead.

  Then there was the mine itself. Could more Durdric fighters be hiding inside?

  At the top of the camp, just beside the mine entrance, they discovered a structure Tejohn had never seen before. It had been built against the cliffside above the level of the wall, and it consisted of a stone furnace, now cold, with a clay cone above it. Was this the crucible where Sweeps steel was made? A tiny bit of dust blew out of the bottom of the cone.

  Tejohn struck his sword against it. “Come out!” he shouted. “Come out or be cut apart.”

  A slender, filthy bare foot stepped down onto the furnace. A young woman climbed out. She wore the rags common for servants, but they were even more caked with dirt than her leg. She had a sallow face and sad, sunken eyes.

  “Bring her.”

  They all returned to the lower room of the commander’s tower. Tejohn put some more wood on the fire so i
t would not burn out. When he turned around, the others stood in a circle around the servant. She stared at the floor.

  “What crime brought on your debt?” he asked.

  “No crime, sir,” she answered quickly. She bared her forearms; her only tattoo was an arrow on her left wrist. “I’m a debt child,” she continued, as if he didn’t know what that arrow meant. “My mother stole sourcakes when she was a girl--to feed her family after the Witts burned our lands, she said. She was caught and sentenced to fifteen years. Me and my brother were supposed to buy her freedom partway, but she died first. My father was a fisherman who had his boat stolen and had to sell himself into service to avoid starvation.”

  Debt children. Convicted criminals turned over their own children to work off their crimes, and there was no time limit for the service of a debt child. They worked until they died--or were set free, which Tejohn heard happened quite often. It was one of the more unsavory aspects of the imperial economy, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Who is your master?”

  “Doctor Ansabish,” she answered. “He’s Fire-taken.”

  Which meant that she might be set free, if the Finstels were feeling generous. “I’m claiming your debt.”

  She gasped and looked up at him in panic. “But only a tyr can—”

  “My name is Tyr Tejohn Treygar, and your dead master’s debt is now mine. Do you understand?”

  She was already looking back down at the floor. Her voice had the same flat tone. “Yes, master.”

  Tejohn looked around at the corpses. “Best to keep busy,” he said. “The soldiers and I will need to wash the blood from our hands. Bring bowls of fresh water to the fire to warm. Clean yourself up as well.”

  “Yes, master.” She turned and hurried out into the yard.

  “This one looks the paunchiest,” Tejohn said, pointing to the man Reglis had killed. “Help me carry him to the pit. Then we’ll move these others out, too.”

  Reglis took the corpse’s legs and they carried him across the yard and laid him beside the sleepstone. The other three were left out beside the fire. Tejohn glanced over at the pen again; there were sheep, pigs, and a few chickens, too. But a roof on an animal pen?

  Then he remembered the ruhgrit, and the hasty roof made more sense.

  When they returned to the tower, the servant had already set bowls of water by the fire, but they were not warm. “We sleep here, with the doors barred.” He turned to the servant as he scrubbed at his hands. “What is your name?”

  “Passlar,” she answered, her face toward the floor.

  “Passlar, having done me this service”--he gestured toward the water bowls—”I declare your debt to me paid. You are a free citizen of the empire.”

  She looked up at him, startled, then glanced at the others as if expecting them to break out laughing at his joke. Arla stared at the young woman intently.

  Reglis said, “My tyr, how will Wimnel manage alone? The work involved—”

  “Wimnel Farrabell is an adult,” Tejohn snapped. “I lived most of my life without someone to mop my floors for me; he can do the same. We will provision ourselves and clean our own kits. Clear?”

  “Yes, my tyr.”

  “Passlar, what is your family name?”

  “Breakrock, my Tyr. My mother didn’t live long enough to tell me my true name.”

  “That makes it inconvenient. I’d hoped to lead you across the Southern Barrier to reunite you with your relatives, and to serve as a witness to the crimes committed here.” And to convince the Finstels that they should feel a bit of gratitude toward him.

  “Yes, my tyr. Inconvenient.”

  He almost snapped at her, but Fire and Fury, she was right. It had been a stupid thing to say, and she was a free citizen now. She was entitled to a little criticism--as long as she didn’t sign on to the military.

  “Miss Breakrock, I apologize for being so thoughtless. If you come here, I will cut the debt tattoo from your wrist.”

  As he drew his knife, Arla spoke up sharply. “My tyr. May I have the honor? I have done this before and had it done to me.” She showed her own wrist, but whatever scars she bore were too faint to see in the light of the fire.

  “Wash your hands first,” Tejohn said, putting his knife away. “And see that she is washed, receives warm clothes, and takes her turn on the sleepstone.” Arla rushed to the fire and began to wash. Reglis joined her.

  “My tyr!” Wimnel said. “I have been waiting—”

  “You’ll get it,” Tejohn told him. “But a broken bone will take days to heal, while a patch of new skin will grow back before sunrise.” He turned to Arla. “Remember this: the creature in the pit is not to be discussed, nor harmed, nor released. It is my captive.”

  “Yes, my tyr.” Arla and Passlar hurried out into the yard.

  Tejohn ordered Reglis and Wimnel to wait by the fire, then went upstairs to investigate the upper part of the tower. His soldiers had searched it, but he was still anxious, half expecting a Durdric fighter to leap from a wardrobe.

  But there was nothing in the wardrobe, not even clothes. Someone had already searched through it, throwing the clothes across the floor and feather bed. The clay chamber pot was stinking full.

  Happily, the weapons displayed on the walls—though covered with dust—were of good quality.

  They had a long trip ahead of them, and Tejohn intended to re-provision out of the Durdric packs and the Finstel storehouse. He’d hoped to return the servant to her family to establish that she was of the Finstel clan, then rely on her testimony before the Tyr’s seat to win his friendship. After all, he had just recaptured a Finstel mine from enemies of the empire. Even if the Finstels were unwilling to fly him to Tempest Pass, that would be worth something.

  He considered, once again, ordering Reglis to remain in the camp and bringing Wimnel through the pass. If Finstel refused to help them fly to Tempest Pass, having a driver of his own would make it easier to “commandeer” one.

  Of course, showing up with a driver of his own would arouse suspicion, and stealing a cart was practically an act of war. As far as Tejohn was concerned, it was better to act honorably and expect honorable treatment in return, and for those who didn’t act honorably, there was always the point of a spear.

  Once he had a new flying cart, Great Way willing, he would travel to Tempest Pass to speak with the king’s uncle. Of course, at this point, the king’s uncle could conceivably make a claim for the Throne of Skulls himself, if he was mad enough to want it. Tejohn hoped he wouldn’t. If the scholar prince could restore Lar to himself, they would return here. If he could not, they would... Who could learn the deadly spell the king had hoped to use against the grunts? Possibly Cazia Freewell could be trusted with it, and Tejohn was well aware of how much the world had turned on its head that he was even thinking such a thought.

  Barring that, Tejohn himself might be forced to learn... No. No that would never do. He was a soldier. If he was going to kill twenty men, he would do it with steel, not by waggling his fingers in the air.

  Thinking of the Freewell girl again made him touch the pocket where he had put her translation stone, and he was surprised to discover a second object there. What did he have in his pocket?

  He drew out both items. One was the stone that Cazia Freewell had made for him, of course. The other was a silver ring.

  For the life of him, Tejohn had no idea where he had gotten it. He’d never owned a ring in his life. He looked at the face; the design had a small drum in the center with a circle around it.

  It was the prince’s ring. Tejohn suddenly remembered Lar at the edge of the sleepstone, pressing something into his hands, although in the panic of the moment Tejohn did not remember pocketing it. This was the Italga seal. The king’s ring was probably still on the dais back in Peradain, but the prince’s ring--

  By giving Tejohn his ring, Lar had made him regent. It had only happened five times before, always when the king died before his eldest was of age. L
ar had no children, of course, and his uncle had no ring of his own. Should Tejohn pass it to Cazia Freewell or Jagia Italga, even though queens who were not permitted to sit upon the throne? To Lar’s uncle, a man Tejohn did not know at all? Or should he rule the empire himself, passing it to his own children?

  The wind howled through the darkness, rattling the shutters. Fire and Fury, but the never-ending sound of it was enough to drive him mad. How did anyone think with this constant noise and pressure? He was glad to be indoors again. What’s more, judging by the bed and fine cloth strewn about the floor, he was going to sleep in comfort tonight.

  There was another room set off from the chambers. It held a desk, a stack of wax tablets, and a shelf of scrolls. Tejohn didn’t pay them much attention.

  He climbed the next flight of stairs up to the roof. He supposed it gave a commanding view of the area, but it would have been wasted on him even in daylight. The fire the Durdric had built in the middle of the yard was little more than glowing red embers now, and that was just about all Tejohn could see. Not even the stars were visible.

  Now he bore the last Italga ring. He’d gone from being a landless tyr to the regent of the entire empire. For the life of him, he could not imagine a situation in which he would not lose his head for brandishing this ring.

  He went back down into the bedchamber and found Arla standing stiffly beside the door, waiting for him. “Is it done?”

  “Yes, my tyr,” she said. Her gaze was fixed on him in a way that made him uneasy. The scout did not seem to be threatening him, but her wide eyes shone in the glow of the lightstone. “She was nervous about using the sleepstone with the king there—”

  “Understandable. And don’t call him ‘the king’ again. It might not be the death of him, but it will certainly be the death of you.”

  If his threat affected her, she did not show it. She didn’t even blink. “I apologize, my tyr. She overcame her fear and is healing now. The incisions I made should heal before dawn. My tyr, do you plan to bring her with us?”